Lost in the Notes
by ThisIsALegitUsername
Summary: "Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent." -Victor Hugo. Sherlock Holmes is an independent musician, and is perfectly happy being a solo act. However, John drags him to the show of another musician, and he might, just maybe, really want to work with her. Sherlolly AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I really have no idea where I got this idea from. I guess it's because I listen to music when I write and do homework, and I've always wanted to do an AU. So here it is. It will be Sherlolly, eventually, I promise! I plan for this to be around 15 chapters, but it might be a bit shorter or longer than that.

My wonderful Sherlockian friend Allison will be the beta for this story. Thanks, girl!

…

"Quit being an ass, Sherlock!"

"It's none of your business, John!"

"It is too! I'm trying to help you out here, and you're just ignoring me! You can't continue on as solo act! You need to diversify yourself, stand out from the crowd!"

"I'm doing just fine! I can do this! I've made it this far already, I can keep going!"

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were having quite the little domestic. Their frustrated voices rang out in the small flat in London, also known as 221B Baker Street. The fight had resulted in John standing up, trying to appear taller than his roommate, who was sitting down, and leaning forward out of his chair. It was quite the fight, they hadn't argued like this for ages.

Sherlock was now standing up, towering over the 5'6" man standing opposite him. John gritted his teeth, now having to look up. "I hate it when you do that!" he growled indignantly. "You just do that to make me feel short!"

"Do what?" Sherlock smirked innocently down at his friend. "I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about."

"Arg… Quit changing the subject!"

"I'm still not listening."

"SHERLOCK! FOR GOD'S SAKE, JUST DO THIS! JUST THIS ONCE, FOR ME, FOR YOU FOR YOUR _CAREER!_"

"Why should I come and check out an artist I have zero interest in working with?"

"You haven't even met her, Sherlock! I've seen a few of her shows, and she's fantastic! You and her would go excellent together! I promise, Sherlock, when have I ever led you the wrong way?"

"There was that one time where you drove us to the wrong stage, when the one we were supposed to be at was on the other side of London. And that time when you forgot to buy the plane tickets, and we can't forget about the time with the tuning fork-"

"Alright, yeah, I make mistakes. But this is different. Just trust me."

"Why yes, I should always listen to yo-"

Sherlock was cut off by a sharp glare from John. John was a former army captain, and he could dole out some serous glares. Sherlock wasn't one to shy away from them, but this glare clearly said 'I will get out my handgun and shoot you and your bloody smug face off if you don't agree with me and I will not miss.'

Sherlock wavered under the glare. John was serious.

"Sherlock," John started, calm but firm "We are going to see her show, and I don't care if I have to drag you out of the flat, throw you into the cab, and pull you by the ear into the venue, we are going. Is that clear?"

Sherlock threw himself back down onto the couch, grumbling. It was clear who had won this fight. He muttered out a small, barely audible "Fine."

John smiled to himself, pleased with his win. "We have to head out at 7, the show starts at 8."

Sherlock merely dismissed him with wave, indicated he heard him. He picked some sheet music up that he was working on and carried it to the stand, which was set out by the window. He grabbed his bow, rubbed some rosin on it, and picked up his violin. Resting his chin on the chinrest, he flipped to the first page, and began to play.

A beautiful sound of music drifted through the flat and out onto the street below.

Sherlock Holmes was a musician. He was part of the many, many musicians in the underground music scene of London. The type of music ranged from guitar players to 5-piece rock bands to crooning girls to classical players who sang in chords and not words.

However, the problem with being in the underground music scene was not having record deals. At least 98% of them didn't. And with record deals comes money.

Not being having a deal didn't really affect Sherlock since he came from plenty of money. His family had quite the pile.

Sherlock was in it because he loved music. He loved hearing the notes he made drift out, filling the space with sound, drowning out everything. He'd been playing ever since he was young, and has been getting better ever since.

Sherlock's weakness, however, is his pride. He likes hearing the sound of his own music, and not anyone else's.

And that's where we stand today.

Their recent argument was over just the same subject. John, his best friend, flatmate, and manager was trying to convince him to start working with others. Sherlock might be indifferent to a record deal, but John certainly wasn't.

They had started this fight years ago, but John kept bringing up and Sherlock kept dropping the subject for years. John tries to get Sherlock to come see a show or two, to scout out a potential partner in music. He frequently did not win these fights, and when he did, Sherlock would try his best to weasel his way out of them. One time, he faked pneumonia. Another time, he jumped out of a window and ran down the street. The best time, in Sherlock's opinion, was when he offered to go get milk from the Tesco's.

John _certainly _wouldn't forget that one.

Out of 200 shows John wanted Sherlock to see, they only made it to about 10. And Sherlock was only impressed with one of them, who signed a record deal a bit later.

She was an international superstar now.

Sherlock had now come to the end of his 36-page score. There were lyrics, too, but one cannot sing while playing the violin. He had been playing for hours, and the time had flown by. That's what happens when you lose yourself in music.

He glanced at the clock. It was around 6:55 PM. They would have to leave in a few minutes.

He placed his violin back in its case as he heard John coming down the stairs.

"Let's go, Sherlock," John hollered. "I hope you're still here."

Sherlock wordlessly went to pick up his coat and scarf. As John entered the room, Sherlock was putting on his scarf carefully and turning his coat collar up.

A look of relief flashed over John's face. "You're still here. Thank God."

Sherlock smirked, waited for John to get his own coat on, and walked after John down the stairs and out the door.

The wind outside was biting, seeing as it was the middle of winter. John hailed a cab, and Sherlock slid into the car, John following shortly after. He told the cabbie the location of the venue, and the taxi started off.

Sherlock stared out the window, hoping that this would all end soon.

…

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want to contact me, my tumblr URL is sort-of-not-psychotic.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all who have read this story! You guys rock!

Sorry for the late update, I had this Spanish project, and it took up 9 ½ hours of my time this week and into most of the weekend. And also, my beta and I had a hard time getting together to revise it. However, this chapter is almost twice as long. Bonus!

…

Molly Hooper's stomach was on the verge of rejecting her dinner.

Though she had gotten over her stage fright a little, Molly was still very afraid of screwing up around people. She hated letting people down and she hated disappointing them. She could _not_ screw up this show tonight.

Molly felt a hand rest on her shoulder, and she turned around to find Greg Lestrade, the owner of the venue and a good friend of hers.

"How're you doing?" Lestrade asked. "You look pale."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Molly lied. She was, quite possibly, not fine.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes, I don't want to be a bother, I should be fine," _But no guarantees, _Molly thought nervously.

Lestrade nodded, realizing she wanted to be alone, and began to walk offstage. "Show starts in 10 minutes!" he announced to the crew.

Molly nodded and picked her guitar up again. She had tuned it twice at the theater already and once earlier back at home. Even so, she plucked the strings and turned the tuning heads. The piano was already onstage, and she had checked to make sure that sounded right as well.

The Silver Fox was a popular music venue in the London music scene where Molly played when she could. It was somewhat hard to get into, though she knew Lestrade well, so she could get in about once a month. She was playing the early Saturday night show, and she was so, so lucky to have gotten into it. Saturdays and Fridays were absolute nightmares to get into.

However, since she came here often, she had sort of a following of supporters, a small but steady group of fans that would come to see her shows.

She heard Lestrade's voice echo, "I'm going on now!" and Molly gathered her things, guitar in one hand and sheets of music in the other, and walked to the wings of the stage.

She looked up to the ceiling and prayed to some imaginary deity in her mind, _Oh pleasepleaseplease don't make me fuck this up! Just this once, pretty please!_

"Now most of you know this lovely young lady, a close friend of mine, the singing-guitarist-pianist, Molly Hooper!" He beckoned her onto the stage.

Molly, as calmly as she could, walked out on stage with everything in hand. Lestrade smiled at her and took her guitar from her hand so she could set up her sheet music on the stand. She smiled shyly at Lestrade as she took the guitar back from him with slightly trembling hands and sat down on her stool. He walked off the stage, leaving Molly to her performance, and she positioned her guitar on her lap a little better.

"How is everyone tonight?" she asked, into the microphone, to the crowd, trying her best to hide her nervousness.

An eager round of claps, cheers, and whoops swept through the almost-full venue of people.

"That's great! So, um, it's been a while since I've performed here, and I've only got an hour, so I might as well get along with this."

The audience cheered once more, and then they were silent.

Molly adjusted the music sheets, placed her fingers on the starting chords, and began to play.

The thing was, when one starts playing music, one tends to get lost in the tones and the chords and the keys and the majors and the sharps. The audience is forgotten and it's just the musician and the music.

It's their own little world, their own escape.

And Molly playing her music just like that.

Molly sang while she played. She had been told by many that she had a beautiful voice. It's hard to judge your own talent, so Molly didn't really know. She often felt her voice was too high and she would squeak on some of her words. But she loved singing nonetheless.

Although Molly had no significant other, she did sing songs about love. She had never really found another person to love, so she got most of her inspirations from books or movies. Her love life was her loneliness, and singing about loneliness only makes one feel lonelier.

She was being reminded of just that.

The half hour of her guitar songs was over, done in a flash. Surprised by the intensity of applause she got, Molly placed her guitar on the stand and moved over to the lovely concert grand piano.

One reason a many people loved The Silver Fox was because it was an overall great place. It was clean and rather nice, over eighty years old and still in good shape. But Molly loved it so much because of the piano.

The piano was a beautiful concert grand, 9 feet long, polished like a rich lawyer's shoe. It was always tuned to the right melody (although Molly checked before every show), and the keys were as white as fresh snow in the countryside. Molly loved to play the gorgeous instrument. It made the keyboard back at her flat seem incredibly small and cheap.

Molly set her sheet music up on the piano's stand, slid onto the bench, and placed her fingers lightly on the starting keys.

She began to play the songs, some with vocal and some without. Piano, she thought, was always easier to play than guitar, but harder to write for. You couldn't really manipulate the sound of a piano chord, unlike the sound of a guitar string.

Piano was also easier for her to lose herself in. The pushing of the keys and the rhythmic movement of her hands had a calming yet frantic feel, if that made any sense.

And, once again, the songs were over in a flash. She finished the last notes, keeping the damper pedal down until the chords had finished ringing out. Molly then stood up and walked over to the microphone in the center of the stage, smiling shyly as the audience began to applaud. She looked down, even more abashedly, as she waved their applause off self-deprecatingly.

"Uh, thank you. You guys are very sweet to come support me, even though I'm not very popular…"

She was cut off by good-hearted protests from the crowd, and she began to look down and blush profusely. They quieted down once more, and Molly resumed her short spiel.

"Um, anyway thank you all again. Music is a great passion of mine, and it's wonderful that all of you support me and listen to me play. Have a good night!"

The crowd applauded once again, whooping and yelling praise as Molly bowed, gathered her things, and walked off the stage.

She felt the thrills of adrenaline giving her shakes. Every performer loves the thrill they get after performing from the audience's praise, showing they were at least decent. Molly was no different. She looked down at her trembling hands and could tell she was smiling, giddy with excitement.

Lestrade approached her, also grinning, but not quite for the same reasons as Molly. "Molly, you were fantastic!"

She smiled back. "Thank you. I was worried I was going to faint!"

Lestrade chuckled. "That was one time! And it was forever ago, too."

Molly shuddered and blushed at the memory.

Lestrade chuckled again, "Oh well, we all have our first times performing. Oh, and there's two people I know who want to speak with you. I don't know why, but they probably have a good reason. And here they come!"

Molly looked over her shoulder, following Greg's gaze, and saw two men walking towards her.

The first man was a considerable amount shorter than the other, and a bit older than him, too. He had short, sandy hair and a polite smile on his face. Holding himself with perfect posture, he walked with purpose, in perfect beat with the man beside him. He gave off the aura of "I'm a nice guy." He also seemed to be the mature one in the relationship, as well as a bit more emotionally stable. He would be attractive, sure, but not really in a love way. More of a reliable-friend way.

Molly decided she liked him.

The other man, however, was a different story. He had paper-pale skin and piercing eyes that couldn't quite decide if they wanted to be blue, green, or gray. A semi-organized mess of black curls sat on his head. He was tall, taller than Molly, and even Lestrade. He wasn't smiling, unlike his companion. His high cheekbones gave him a regal appearance, and the way he held himself- straight, tall, eyes scanning the room- made him look like he was a king observing a crowd of peasants.

He looked familiar, like another musician, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Molly was always busy working at St. Bart's morgue (she was a pathologist, since she didn't make enough money to support herself from her music and she had a degree in mortuary science) or writing new songs, so she didn't see a lot of other artists perform, but she did have time to see shows at The Silver Fox every so often. She was eighty percent sure she had seen him before. A face like his was hard to completely forget.

Molly found him attractive, but he just seemed… cold.

She came to the conclusion that she didn't like him as much as the other man walking beside him. Molly, in her quietness, had become quite adept at reading people just through observation, or else she wouldn't have been able to determine any of this about either of the men.

Neither of them looked very important or high-up, despite the taller man's royal gaze. So they weren't people looking for a record deal. Not that Molly was really expecting one.

"Hello, you must be Molly Hooper," the shorter man said, flashing a polite smile and sticking out his hand. "I'm John Watson."

"Nice to meet you," Molly said, shaking the offered hand as firmly as she could. Her eyes wandered to the other man, and John noticed.

"Oh yes, this is my best friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

Molly knew this name. He had played at the Silver Fox a few times. He wasn't that well known, and Molly had only seen him in passing. But a man with his looks and a name like that wasn't hard to remember.

Molly had heard he was a good artist, though. She was impressed with him, despite the little she had heard of his music.

Sherlock took a bit longer to stick his hand out. His eyes were racing over her, analyzing her. Molly squirmed a little, and he stuck his hand out. His eyes never left hers, after a cursory look over her body. Not in a sexual way- seemingly more out of an almost scientific interest. This added to Molly's perception of his coldness.

Molly felt herself blush a little. She was still human, after all.

"Anyway," John said, "We're here to discuss some business. Sherlock is a musician, much like you. He's always been content working by himself, but being his manager and his friend, I'm always on the lookout for his best interests, and I thought working with someone else would help him be happier and become less of a…"

"Sociopath?" Lestrade suggested.

John rolled his eyes, "Yeah, sure. I was going for something a bit less insulting, but that works. Anyway," he looked at Molly and smiled apologetically, "Sherlock was impressed by your performance and he would like to work with you."

John clearly did not waste any time getting to the point.

Molly was quite taken aback. "Me? You want me to work with you?" She directed her question to the man in question.

Sherlock, who had not spoken in the entire conversation, finally spoke.

"Yes. Although you're one of the meekest women I've ever met, you have a passable amount of talent- more than is currently locatable in London today. I have no desire to look outside of the city for a partner in my musical career, and you obviously don't already have a partner you're working with. Should you accept my offer, we will practice often. I won't accept any laziness or slacking. Your skills must always be at their highest, as mine will be. I play violin and piano, and you play guitar and piano. You have a pleasing soprano voice, and I have a very deep, melodic baritone. Overall, our instruments and voices will complement each other nicely. We would play and sing duets on the piano, and you would teach me to play the guitar. We would share in the songwriting."

Molly felt even more intimidated than she had probably ever felt in her life.

She gulped a little and began, "That should work, but I'm a morgue pathologist at St. Bart's. I work from 7 in the morning to 5 at night on weekdays. I can practice after work and on weekends."

"Where do you live?" John asked, giving her a reassuring smile.

"A few blocks away from Bart's. If we practice after work, I can take the Tube to your place from the hospital. Where do you live?"

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock answered. "Next to a café named Speedy's."

"Okay," Molly nodded. That wasn't too far from a Tube station.

She and John exchanged phone numbers. Sherlock didn't offer his.

"So, when do you want to practice?" Molly looked expectantly at Sherlock.

John was about to answer when Sherlock chimed in, "Tomorrow. 3 o'clock. Be punctual. I despise tardiness. I anticipate seeing more of your potential." Sherlock turned away and swept back down the hallway, leaving Molly, Lestrade, and John in his wake. Molly also heard a small mutter from Sherlock that sounded like, "But I'm not getting my hopes up."

John flashed another one of his 'Sorry about him' smiles (Molly wondered if that was the only one he could make) and said, "Okay then, I guess that will work. See you tomorrow, then?"

Molly nodded yes, and John trotted off to catch up with his friend.

Molly watched them go and jumped a little when she felt Lestrade's hand on her shoulder.

"You're lucky. Sherlock's great. He's a prick sometimes, but he's talented. You're a strong woman, Molly, and I know you can get through to him. He's got a heart of ice, or maybe no heart at all. But maybe you can thaw it out. I know John already has a little bit."

Molly smiled up at him. As he walked away, she went back to her guitar and packed it up. She slipped on her coat, grabbed her bag and case, and walked out into the cold.

Once outside, she stared up into the blackness of the London sky. This evening had been quite hectic by her standards. She had performed in front of a large crowd (by her standards), and now she was to work with another musician. And a talented musician, at that.

Molly was quite shocked from the whole ordeal, and she couldn't gather her thoughts enough to think much all the way home.

…

A/N: Thanks again! Sorry about the late update! Cookies for everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for all who read and reviewed! I'm looking forward to writing this story, and I'm glad you all enjoy reading it! I'll try to update more often, since it's had such a positive response and school is close to ending. I just have finals next week, Denver Comic Con the following weekend, and then I should have TONS more time. Stay awesome!

…

It's quite the sight to see a woman of a mere 5 feet 3 inches dragging a guitar through the London streets.

Molly was hauling her guitar case, pausing sometimes to set it down and flex her hand. Along with the guitar, she was struggling to keep her messenger bag on her left shoulder, heavy with her laptop, sheet music, and other various objects.

She checked her watch. It was 2:50 PM, about 10 minutes until she was supposed to be at Sherlock and John's flat. She was really trying not to be late, as she didn't want to ruin any chance of working with this man. He did say to be punctual.

The trek from her flat to Sherlock and John's was lengthy. It consisted of riding the Tube nearly two miles and walking a few blocks south to get there. The Tube ride was difficult, and she tried her best to avoid falling down the steep cement stairs in the station and to keep her ankles out of the gap between the platform and the train. "Mind the Gap," the signs said.

It was hard enough for Molly to do this without a messenger bag nearly bursting at the seams and a guitar case almost as big as her. Adding these, the trip was more than difficult.

Molly was now trotting awkwardly down the sidewalk, making her strides as long as she could. People would cast side glances at her, possibly in awe of this woman who was barely managing to carry her body weight in musical instruments, or maybe just in confusion.

Earlier that morning, John had called her and told her that they had a piano at their flat. Molly was extremely grateful for that. She imagined lugging her cheap, plastic keyboard through London and shuddered at the thought.

Molly had just arrived at Sherlock and John's flat after her difficult trip. The flat looked rather modest from the outside, a simple black door with the gold numbers "221B" on the front and a gold knocker underneath, next to a cafe where the smells of coffee and pastries drifted from the open window. Her stomach growled, and Molly remembered how hungry she was. She had been too nervous to eat lunch.

As she struggled up the two stairs to the door of the flat, Molly noticed muffled violin music. She paused and listened more closely. She couldn't tell who or what was making the music, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

Molly rapped lightly on the door with her fist, not using the knocker, as politely as she could (Molly wasn't really a loud knocker). The violin didn't pause. After a few moments, she raised her hand to knock again when the door swung open.

"Hello there, Molly! Come in!" said a slightly breathless John.

"Thanks. Am I on time?"

John smiled at her and assured her she was. "3 o'clock, on the dot."

Molly stepped over the threshold of the flat, making sure her bag was secure on her shoulder, and followed John up the narrow staircase, taking extra care not to bang her case against the wall as they rounded a corner.

"Sorry about the clutter," John said, flashing another one of his apologetic smiles as they came to the top of the stairs.

"I'm sure it's no problem. My flat is pretty messy, too," Molly replied.

The open door at the top of the stairs led into a living room, where the violin music was drifting from. To her right, there was a couch and a baby grand piano, and to her left a fireplace with two plush chairs in front of it. Windows across from the door opened to the street, letting in lots of natural light. The place was cluttered with various objects, ranging from sheet music to books to- was that a human skull on the mantelpiece? It was messy, sure, but it had a nice feel to it. It felt settled down. It felt, quite simply, like a home.

John began to say something else when Molly saw Sherlock across the room. He was standing with his back partially turned towards them, but she could still see his face. His eyes were closed, and he had his face slightly wrinkled in concentration. His fingers moved in fluid, practiced movements, holding the strings down and sliding his fingers up and down the fingerboard. His other hand held the bow as he slid it gracefully over the strings, making the notes float into the air, piercing through the regular London noise.

Sherlock's hard features seemed to have melted away. He seemed much less imposing than yesterday, more content. His features weren't hard anymore. He was… gentle. Peaceful.

It made Molly smile a little. It was true that music changed people, which applied even to Sherlock.

John cleared his throat, and Sherlock abruptly stopped playing. He turned to face them, and Molly saw that his face had returned to his normal cool expression.

"You're here. You're late," Sherlock said brusquely.

"She was here on time, Sherlock. You were just too wrapped up in your music to notice." John retorted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to Molly. His eyes scanned her again, as they had last night. Molly blushed under the scrutinizing gaze.

John interrupted the awkward greeting, saying, "I have to go run some errands. I'll leave you two to it, then?"

"Hn," Sherlock grunted in acknowledgment. "Set your bag and case down. Sit in that chair over there. We're getting started now." Sherlock said, addressing Molly and dismissing John all in one breath.

Molly placed her guitar case and messenger bag down on the floor and felt the relief in her limbs. She'd forgotten how long she'd been holding them.

She sat down in the chair and Sherlock sat opposite her, set his violin on his lap and kept his bow in hand to rub a block of rosin he had grabbed from a table on the bowstrings.

Molly wasn't quite sure how to start the conversation. She studied the room around her, still taking in the chaotic complexity of it all. Sherlock was casting glances up at her, alternating between looks at his bow. He looked at her like she was just another object in the room, but one that had to be studied more closely.

"You brought your guitar," Sherlock stated.

"Um, yes, I wasn't sure if I was going to need it or not."

"Good. You can teach me guitar. Our act will be more successful if together if we both know how to play it. I will teach you violin. I plan to go pick out a guitar tomorrow. I'll get you a violin, as well."

Molly was quite taken aback. "A violin? I can pay for my own- I don't want to trouble you, really."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "Judging by the state of your case and messenger bag, and also your face and left hand, you clearly cannot pay for one yourself, even a low-quality one. If we are to remain music partners, you must have the highest quality instruments possible. I assure you, paying for the violin will not be a problem."

_Well, _Molly thought,_ That's nice of him. But it seems more for his own benefit than mine. _

Sherlock stood up suddenly. "Since neither of us has those instruments currently, we'll play piano for today. Bring your bag over."

Sherlock strode over to the piano, Molly following him. The bench was barely big enough for two, but Molly was so small and Sherlock was so skinny that, sitting pressed together side by side, they managed to fit. Sherlock's leg was grazing Molly's, and she felt a bit intimidated by his presence.

"I'll go first. Here is one of my songs on the piano. Pay attention, I hate when people "zone out," as the colloquialism goes," Sherlock ordered.

Molly nodded and perked up slightly as Sherlock adjusted the sheet music on the stand. He placed his thin and pale fingers on the keys and began to play.

As he played, Molly was absolutely blown away by Sherlock's ability to move his fingers so smoothly across the keys, a perfect legato always in place, staccato when it was needed.

And then, he began to sing.

Molly had seen some great male performers, some of whom had gone on to become famous and win Grammys and be known by the world. They all had wonderful voices.

But none of them compared to Sherlock.

Molly couldn't describe his voice. If she were being metaphorical, she would say it sounded like a river flowing over rocks, a smooth rain falling on an April day, or possibly even a cool breeze flowing through one's hair. Even then, these comparisons barely began to describe what it was like. His voice worked in perfect time with the piano keys, intertwining with the notes.

Molly wasn't sure what the lyrics were saying exactly; his voice was more appealing to listen than the words themselves. She was sure they were great, though.

Molly smiled to herself and watched the man as he played.

He was lovely, graceful. Perfect, even, if Molly would go that far.

It was unreal, illogical, how a man so gifted could be so amazing. In almost every way.

_No, _Molly told herself, _you can't fall for this man. No love, not now. Not for a while. No. You can't jeopardize this opportunity you have to work with him. Don't do it, Molly._

But with things like this, one can't control who they fall in love with.

Molly would have been content to listen to his music for the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening, but the song was over almost as quickly as it started.

"There. Now we both know how the other sings and plays."

Molly smiled, still a bit surprised at the sheer amount of talent from this man. "It was great, Sherlock. Really, really great. Your voice is better than I remember, and you play the piano perfectly, and-"

Sherlock cut her off. "Good. I can tell you still want to work with me. We must get started, now. We'll begin with some songwriting." Sherlock said, pulling out a notebook filled with blank music sheets.

Molly nodded in assent, and they both dove headfirst into writing.

…

After several hours, they were still writing. It had long since grown dark, and the only illumination came from the street and a dim lamp in the corner of the room.

John walked in and saw the two sitting on the bench, heads bent together, conferring with each other. Papers were strewn everywhere, some crumpled and some folded, some ripped and some flat, with scribbles and eraser marks and ink splatters.

John smiled and knocked on the open door, seeing as they hadn't noticed his entrance.

Both Molly and Sherlock turned, Sherlock looking a bit irritated at the interference.

"Hello, hate to interrupt, but it's getting late. Would you like to head home soon, Molly?" John asked.

Molly looked at her watch and stood up with a start. "Oh! It's almost 10! I hadn't even noticed we'd been working for so long."

She jumped off the bench, hurriedly grabbing some sheets of music from the stand that they had been practicing from and shoved them into her messenger bag that had been sitting at her feet. Sherlock stood up lithely after her, organizing the remaining sheets on the stand.

"I'll keep some of these at home, is that alright?" Molly asked as she picked up her guitar case.

"Yes, that's fine," Sherlock answered, stepping towards the window.

"So you're coming tomorrow afternoon again?" John inquired, stepping further into the room.

"Yes, I should be able to get here tomorrow."

"Do you want to leave your guitar here? You're coming back tomorrow, so you don't have to take it home."

Molly paused. Well, she really didn't need it at home. Her plan was to go home, take a shower, eat something, and go to bed, so she could get up at 6 the next morning to get ready for work. Playing the guitar didn't really fit into that schedule. She also didn't really want to drag her guitar around London again, especially late at night.

"Um, okay. Yes, please. That's very nice of you," Molly answered. "Where should I put it?"

"I'll put it right next to the piano." John answered, moving to take it from her.

Molly handed him the guitar and he placed it next to the studio piano in the corner.

"Be here tomorrow, Molly. 6 o'clock. Don't be late." Sherlock said, his body fully turned on her. She and Sherlock had adjusted the time schedule so that she would come at six on weekdays and three on weekends, to accommodate for her work schedule.

"I'll try my best." Molly answered.

Sherlock smiled at her. It wasn't really a true, happy smile, but it was nice nonetheless. It was a little amused smile, no teeth showing, but his eyes twinkled slightly.

_He has a nice smile, _Molly thought plaintively. _I didn't think he was capable of smiling._

Molly felt her heart flutter a little. And then her stomach fell. She'd felt this feeling before. It was unmistakable.

"Well, I should be going now. Work tomorrow, and all." Molly stated abruptly, and finished shoving the sheet music into her bag and was trying her best to hide the blush on her face with her hair.

"Oh yes, do you want a cab, I can call for one, if you want." John asked, some concern showing on his face.

"It's fine, I prefer the Tube. It's pretty quiet this time of night. I'll be fine." Molly answered.

John nodded and started down the stairs. Molly followed after him, and she noticed how easier it was to go down without her huge guitar case.

"Are you sure about taking the Tube? I can get a cab for you," John asked again, hand on the doorknob leading out to Baker Street.

"Yes, I'll be fine, but thank you for the offer." Molly replied, giving a polite smile as John pulled open the door and she walked out.

"Okay, see you tomorrow, then!" John smiled as he nodded his head and shut the door behind her.

Molly began to walk in the direction of the Tube station, but then she turned around, though she wasn't quite sure why. Looking up at the windows of 221B, she saw Sherlock gazing down onto the sidewalk. He turned around before Molly could really stare back, but she could've sworn he'd been watching her.

And there was that flutter in her chest again. Molly turned around, away from the flat, quickening her pace.

_Shit, _she thought. _This can't be happening. I can't fall in love with him. No. Stop. He's mean and unfeeling and Lestrade says he's a sociopath and he has nice fingers and wonderful eyes and a voice like silk and high cheekbones and skin like snow and the prettiest smile and extensive knowledge of music and science and literature and history and he's a hard worker and an absolute genius… _

Molly stopped herself, dead in her tracks.

Molly Hooper, no matter how hard she would try to deny it, had fallen for 221B Baker Street's resident sociopath-musician, Sherlock Holmes.

_Well, fuck._

…

A/N: Yay, the story is picking up! Sorry about the late update, I got sidetracked… tumblr. _(And her beta took forever to get the chapter back to her! Sorry! – the beta who took forever)_


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